


The Waffle Brotherhood

by Silverstar1



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Alan: I'm telling Scott, Alan: you punched me in the face, And possibly his pride, Attempt at Humor, Brotherly Bonding, Comedy, Diners, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Except for Alan's nose, Family, Friendship, Gordon (panicking): I will buy you all the waffles you want just please don't tell Scott, Gordon: yes but accidentally, I can respect that, No Angst, Oh hey look its me trying to write comedy again, Post-Rescue hangouts, That is an important tag, Waffles, they are both human disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverstar1/pseuds/Silverstar1
Summary: "I can’t believe you punched me in the face.""Dude, I’ve told you a million times already – it was an accident!"Alternatively: Gordon and Alan hang out in a café post-rescue. There may or may not be waffles involved.
Relationships: Alan Tracy & Gordon Tracy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	The Waffle Brotherhood

The familiar ache of a post-rescue was beginning to seep into his muscles, igniting the collections of scrapes and bruises he'd picked up over the past six hours that had escaped unnoticed while he'd still been high on an adrenaline rush. His palms were rubbed raw where the grapple had worn through his gloves and left fiery rope-burn across his hands. There was a thin splinter driven under his right thumbnail. A familiar niggle at the base of his spine suggested that he'd pushed himself past his limits, too used to working in zero-gee. None of this compared to the fierce throbbing of his nose.

"You're bleeding again," Gordon noted from the other side of the booth, legs propped up across the bench, back resting against the window. He slid the box of tissues across the table.

"Thanks," Alan mumbled through the wad of bloodied paper currently pressed to his nose. He tipped his head back and instantly regretted it as warmth trickled down his throat, leaving him nauseous. Gordon yanked a collection of tissues out of the holder and threw them at him. Most of them landed in Alan's lap. "Rude."

"Learn to catch," Gordon shot back, and shuffled a little further into the corner of the booth, sliding down to rest his chin on his chest. There was a streak of mud across his temple. From here, in the red glow of the jukebox, it looked suspiciously like blood. Alan knew well enough that it wasn't. Both of them had walked away from that rescue without a scratch (well, without any major wounds, anyway). Ironically enough, it had been after the mission that the injury had been inflicted.

Alan reached for a clean tissue. "I still can't believe you punched me in the face," he said accusingly, trying to sound hurt, as if the pain hadn't mostly died down already and the entire bleeding problem wasn't merely an irritating side-effect.

Gordon heaved a great sigh. "Dude, I've told you a million times – it was an accident! Get over it already."

"Easy for you to say," Alan muttered, considering throwing the collection of stained tissues at his brother's head. "You're not the one bleeding."

Gordon opened one eye. "I said I'd buy you waffles, didn't I? Isn't that payment enough? What's it going to take for you to forget this?"

"Nothing," Alan told him, trying to muster a smug smile only to be defeated by a new wave of pain from his nose. He grimaced and pinched the bridge again. "I'm gonna laud this over you for the rest of time," he promised. "This will be the blackmail material I use for absolutely everything."

Gordon snorted. "Sure."

"Hey, if you're so certain that it won't work, then I'm happy to call up Scott right now and tell him you broke my nose."

Gordon jolted upright, boots slamming into the tiles. "Don't you dare."

"I'm just saying." Alan fought through the pain because frankly smirking was more than worth it at this moment. "Your excuse isn't very credible, is it? 'I slipped and Alan's face was in the way of my fist.'"

"It's the truth!"

Alan lifted a hand. "I call bullshit."

Gordon slid down in his chair with a groan. "Alan, you were right there. You were the one who got punched. You know that that's literally what happened. Anyway, it's your own fault for standing behind me."

"How was I supposed to know you were going to fall off the beam like some sorta crazed elephant on a tightrope?"

Gordon grinned. "Nice. I can really picture that one."

Alan shook his head, trying to hide his smile behind more tissues. "Yeah, it wasn't too shabby."

The jukebox hitched a little as it toppled over onto the next record. A merry jingle sang from the slot-machine by the door where a guy in a leather jacket was busy collecting his winnings. There was a steady dripping where Alan had his head leant against the window as water overflowed from the gutter. Rain was still streaming down outside; the same torrential downpour that had prompted them to delay launch and hang around for a little while. The diner had been a beacon of warmth and light amongst the rolling fog bank and, more importantly, it offered food and a bathroom so Alan could clean his face up and then take Gordon up on that promise of free waffles.

There were a few whispers still as regulars and newcomers alike looked over from their perches scattered around the diner. The International Rescue uniforms were easily identifiable, and they stuck out like a sore thumb – vibrant blue flight suits against red leather booths. Gordon had left his sash back in Two's cockpit and had rolled his suit down to his waist, sitting in a loose save the whales shirt that wasn't designed for the freezing temperatures of Maine in February, forcing him to curl up against the radiator for warmth. Alan had shrugged out of the top half of his suit too because armoured plating was cool in space but wasn't the easiest to move around in when gravity was in play, but at least he'd been wearing a long-sleeved thermal underneath.

The waitress – presumably a student as she looked around Alan's age – took their order, stumbling over her words and blushing a pretty pink as Gordon couldn't resist using the Tracy charm on her. Alan kicked him under the table as she vanished behind the counter.

Gordon shot him a wounded look. "What was that for?"

"She was nervous enough already, what did you have to go and flirt with her for?"

"I wasn't flirting, I was just being nice." Gordon cracked a wicked grin. "Why? Jealous?" He pillowed his chin in one hand and leant forwards with a whisper. "If you want to get her number, all you have to do is show that International Rescue logo again, and I'm sure you'd be in luck."

Alan silently wished for a sink hole to open up beneath their booth. "No," he growled. "I just feel bad for her because she was obviously freaked out about serving us and you had to go and make her even more flustered. It wasn't cool, Gords."

Gordon looked suitably reprimanded. He didn't admit Alan was right because that would be a step too far, but he did tone it down, simply thanking the waitress politely when she returned with their milkshakes. Alan spotted the substantial tip his brother had added to their tab and hid his smile in his elbow.

The milkshakes were good. Gordon promptly began shivering because hey, would you believe that a drink mostly made of ice-cream makes you cold, especially when you're wearing a t-shirt? Alan chased the fragments of a chocolate flake around his cup with a straw and grimaced as a stray droplet of crimson splashed onto the table.

"Shouldn't this have stopped bleeding by now?" he complained as he stuffed tissues up his nose again.

Gordon tilted his head and peered at Alan's nose with a frown. "Shit. Maybe I did break it?"

"Nah, I'd know if it was broken." Alan batted his brother's hand away. "Don't touch it! Idiot."

"I'm trying to tell if it's broken."

"I just told you it isn't!"

"And how would you know?"

Alan narrowed his eyes. "Because it's on my face, funnily enough." He put two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pushed cautiously. There was no crunch, just another sunburst of pain. He sniffled. There was the arid tang of copper in his mouth. His glass was empty, so he stole Gordon's to chase the taste away with strawberry ice cream.

Gordon let out a protesting yelp. "That was mine."

Alan tried not to cackle. "And now it's not." He removed the tissue from his nose cautiously and flipped his watch onto camera mode to examine the bruising. There was dried blood crusted to his upper lip. Very attractive. Thank god he hadn't been planning to ask the waitress for her number. On the plus side, he finally seemed to have stopped dripping blood everywhere, which was always a bonus.

Gordon gave an approving nod. "That looks better."

"Really?"

"No, you still look like a rat. Not even a good rat, either, like a rat that's been living in New York sewers for its entire life but keeps falling in."

"Why do you hate me so?"

Gordon pointed to the glass Alan was currently holding. "You stole my milkshake. Reason enough?"

"You nearly broke my nose," Alan countered, and sat back in his chair with a grin. "Checkmate." He examined the bloodstain on his shirt sadly. "Aw man, I liked this top as well."

Gordon swirled his straw around the empty glass. "It's just a standard NASA thermal. John could probably pick you up a new one for free."

"But this one's mine."

Gordon warmed his hands over the radiator with a half-shrug. "Whatever. You're weird."

"Thanks."

Alan tried to glimpse Two through the rain. The familiar green bulk rose out of the fog, the soft glow of sleek lines piercing the gloom like a lighthouse. It seemed strange to fly Two without Virgil. It seemed stranger still to be sitting in a 50's theme diner waiting for the fog to lift. He had the distinct feeling that time was frozen, as if the rest of the world no longer existed beyond the little bubble of their red-and-white booth, their empty milkshake glasses, the smiley face Gordon had drawn in the misted window, and Two standing guard in the carpark.

"I would die for another milkshake," Gordon commented.

Alan didn't lift his gaze from Two. "Then perish."

Gordon clasped a hand to his chest and slid down as though he'd been shot. "The betrayal, the lack of empathy, the total disregard of the milkshake brotherhood… how could you treat me so?"

Alan rested his head on his crossed arm on the table. "Get me another Oreo shake, yeah?" he requested as Gordon slid out of the booth. "And curly fries. I'm craving curly fries."

Gordon stuck out his tongue. "Perish," he mimicked.

Alan made a great show of drawing the holograph contacts out of his watch and scrolling to tap on Scott's, video-mode engaged to display his damaged nose in all its bruised and bloodied glory.

"I hate you," Gordon told him, and stomped off to the counter. Alan returned his watch to its standby mode and listened with a smile and the familiar warmth of satisfaction in his chest of an argument well-won as he heard add some curly fries thanks drift across the diner.

The curly fries were good. They were laden with salt and oil had soaked into the chequered paper lining the basket. Gordon tipped some onto his makeshift plate of clean tissues and covered them in paprika because he was a weirdo like that. Alan upended the salt-shaker and revelled in the lack of repercussions as no responsible adults were present.

The rain was beginning to ease off. Glimmers of light were visible, just breaking through the higher levels of the fog. Two basked in a couple of sunbeams. Alan licked salt from his fingers and drained his milkshake, scrawling his waffle demands on a scrap of paper so Gordon didn't have an excuse for messing the order up.

It was quiet in the bathroom. Grubby, too. A couple of stringy cobwebs lined the corners. A blue strip light above the sink flickered on and off. The tap was temperamental and took a good few twists before the pipes finally croaked into life. Alan wiped a hole in the grimy mirror with his sleeve and splashed water onto his face, patting at his nose until he looked less like he'd been beaten with a crowbar and more like the unfortunate reality of having a dumbass for a brother who fell off support beams and accidentally clobbered him in the face on the way down.

When he returned to the booth, Gordon had paid the jukebox to belt out a song that Alan distantly remembered Dad once playing in the car. Two takeaway boxes of waffles stood on the table. Alan slid into the booth and prised the lid off the Tupperware. A pair of waffles with red velvet ice cream, sliced strawberries and a generous coating of chocolate greeted him in a sugary wave of warm deliciousness. He stole a chocolate flake and returned his attention to Gordon who was finishing up settling the bill. The waitress was giggling, looking a lot more confident.

"Takeaway boxes?" Alan queried as his brother returned.

Gordon nodded. "Yup." He zipped his flight-suit back up. "We've got a new call. Fancy a trip down to Rio?"

Alan scooped up the takeaway boxes and followed him out the door. A bell chimed in their wake. When he glanced back, the rest of the diner's occupants had gathered together with excited whispers and surreptitious cell-phone cameras pointed towards Two.

"Can I fly?" he asked as the elevator rose into the cockpit.

Gordon shot him a fond look. "Nice try, dipshit, but not happening." He held out a hand. "Gimme a strawberry?"

Alan coaxed the lid off the second container. "There is a suspicious lack of chocolate here."

"I'm trying to be healthy."

"Okay, can I just point out that a) it's waffles, and b) this box is filled with sprinkles and cinnamon-sugar."

Gordon guided Two into a leisurely ascent with a wolfish grin. "There's fruit too."

"Sprinkles," Alan repeated, examining his rainbow-dyed fingers just from retrieving a lone strawberry. He shook his head in despair. Gordon laughed. "How long 'til Rio?"

"Fifteen, max."

"Reckon we can finish these waffles in that time?"

Gordon set Two onto autopilot and made grabby hands for the second box. "We can give it our best shot."


End file.
